Hey all. This is a collection of short stories and poems that I write as part of my creative writing class. Normally they are small pieces of writing based on a prompt as part of a writing exercise for class and I just thought I'd share them and get some outside feedback. Thanks :)
Title credit goes to Brendan Behan. Subject to change.
Prompt: Middle aged man at bus stop whose son has just died violently. Show how the experience colours his vision of his surroundings without telling what happened.
What a wonderful world…
He'd never noticed how colourless the night was; like the sun leached the earth of life when it stole away for the night, leaving behind an empty black void.
A flickering streetlamp bathed his nearby surroundings in a fake white light, illuminating the cracked concrete and grimy gutters. The seat was hard beneath him and he shifted slightly in an effort to get comfortable. It felt like it was steadily drawing the heat out of him to warm its iron heart.
It started to rain, lightly at first but steadily getting heavier, cold drops landing on his skin when the winds blew against his favour. Water slid down the dirty glass of the bus shelter like tears sliding down puffy cheeks.
Steady and slow.
The world was weeping.
A low rumble started; a groaning rasping sound like the noise of invalids on their death bed. An old bus chugged into view; there were no passengers, just an ancient, vacant skeleton that pulled to a stop with a loud squeal of its breaks. He was reminded of an animal in pain.
The door slid open with a hiss and he was met with a leering grin.
The bus driver was wearing red, the colour of blood.
It hurt his eyes.
He decided to walk.